


Not One Word

by tiny_freakin_head



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Past Relationship(s), kinda Enjolras/Grantaire if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 16:44:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiny_freakin_head/pseuds/tiny_freakin_head
Summary: On the eve of the barricade, Grantaire tries to convince Enjolras to back down.





	Not One Word

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up with this in my head one day, and it wouldn't go away until I let it out. Please read the tags guys! This is short and painful.

Lemarque was dead.

Lemarque was dead, and Grantaire could see the writing on the wall.

Worse, he could see the _fire_ in Enjolras’ eyes.

No, still worse than that—he could see it reflected in his friends’ eyes— _their_ friends, though Grantaire didn’t think Enjolras had much right to call them that, not with what he had planned.

The small spark of hope, that for all their talk, the others would back down when the time came, that Enjolras would go alone or—a very small hope indeed—stand down rather than alone was extinguished.

Still, devil take the man, he had to _try_. He cornered Enjolras in his flat. He was counting bullets and pointedly ignoring Grantaire.

Grantaire had always been a man slow to anger, slower still to confront, but now, as the loss of everyone he held dear loomed before him, he was _furious_. A cold, steely rage, not like the quick, hot, bright flashes of his Apollo’s ire. This was anger built up for years, quietly cultivated and set aside for a time such as this. Rather than pushing it away, gulping it down like bitter shards of glass, he embraced it, held it close even as it tore through him. He was breathing heavily, his hands—his whole body—shaking.

“Well.” One word. All he could bite out without screaming.

Enjolras didn’t so much as look up from his task, but Grantaire saw one perfect, golden eyebrow arch, up and then down. The rest of his face was a porcelain mask.

Any other time, Grantaire might have left, but now he approached, slamming a fist down on the table, scattering bullets across the floor.

Enjolras’ head snapped up at that. His mouth opened, ready to unleash his fury. What he saw in Grantaire’s eyes, the sound of his breathing, stopped him cold. He shut his mouth again. For a moment, the only noise was the _tick-tick_ of bullets striking each other or the furniture legs before they too came to rest.

“Right.” Despite his determination, Grantaire wilted a little beneath the full weight of Enjolras’ displeased attention, but he wouldn’t let himself be driven off. Not this time. _Fuck_ , how he wanted a drink. What had he been thinking, going into this sober? Too late now.

“Right,” he repeated, hoping Enjolras didn’t notice the way his hands shook. “You’re really doing this. Aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

Enjolras opened his mouth to speak again, but Grantaire cut him off with a short, angry motion. His anger was back in full force. Good. He needed it.

“No. I think we’ve heard quite enough from you. Now, it’s your turn to listen to _me_.”

There was an old blade, too long to be called a knife but too short for a sword, sitting on the table beside Enjolras. Grantaire thought it might once have been part of an officer’s dress uniform, but now the leather scabbard was cracked and white with mildew. Grantaire was worried it would crumble to pieces when he pulled the blade free, and he worried that the knife itself would be chipped or weakened by rust, but the blade had been recently oiled and was in much better condition than the scabbard suggested. It gleamed in the lamplight.

Enjolras straightened at the sight of bared steel, but he didn’t so much as stand and step back. Of _course_ not. It was only Grantaire after all. The drunk. The clown. The fool.

“If you want to kill yourself so very badly, _here_.” Grantaire slammed the knife down on the table, viciously pleased when Enjolras visibly startled. Grantaire had nicked his thumb on the blade, fat drops of blood slowly dotting the table, unheeded by both men.

“Shall I demonstrate the best method?” Grantaire offered, revelling in Enjolras’ obvious discomfort. “Can’t imagine a man like _you_ has ever wanted to put an end to himself.”

Enjolras managed a strangled sound before Grantaire cut him off again, slamming his fist on the table and spattering them both with his blood. “No. _No_. You’re clearly hungry for death. _Starving_ I’d say, only thing you’ve ever starved for in your _life_ , I think. But if it’s not your own you’re after…” He seized the knife again, a trickle of blood slowly tracing its way down the blade. “If not your own…how about _mine_. You want to kill someone?” He grabbed Enjolras’ hand, moving with speed he didn’t often show outside the boxing ring. Before Enjolras could react, he slapped the knife’s hilt into Enjolras’ palm, forced his fingers to close around it. Swallowed hard. He wouldn’t cry, dammit. Not now. Not _now_.

“You want to kill me?” he asked, almost tenderly. “There. Do it, and have done.” He stepped very close to Enjolras. True, he had to tilt his head back to meet the taller man’s eyes, but his chest would have been broader than Enjolras’ even without the boxing and singlestick. This close, Enjolras seemed frail.

Grantaire leaned forward, resting the point of the blade against his chest. “Do it. Here, now, spare the others. Even spare _yourself_ , if you can. Don’t drag anyone else down with you. Take it out on me. On _me_ and me alone—no one else. I come to you, a willing sacrifice, O Apollo.” It came out more weary than mocking.

Enjolras dropped the knife with a disgusted sound. Some of Grantaire’s blood was smeared on his hand, and he flicked it off.

Grantaire shook his head. “Didn’t think so. Can’t even do it yourself. Have to let others do your killing for you. I see how it is.” He wanted to shout, to vent his rage, but his words came out deadly calm.

Enjolras actually flinched, and Grantaire relished the sight. His face hardened, and for a moment Grantaire thought Enjolras was going to hit him. He was prepared for that, bracing for a blow that never came.

He _wasn’t_ prepared for Enjolras, white-faced, stepping back and stooping to gather the scattered bullets with a dignity few men could have lent such a task. He swept out the door without a backwards glance.

Grantaire could only stare after him in stunned silence, before shouting to the empty room, “Don’t think I won’t be there. Coward!”

Once he was certain Enjolras had truly gone and wasn’t coming back, Grantaire fell to his knees and buried his craggy face in his hands. He gulped down lungfulls of air, but it wasn’t enough. He didn’t weep. He _wanted_ to, more than anything, but tears wouldn’t come. He wanted to scream, but couldn’t force a sound from his throat.

He’d failed.

He looked up, saw the discarded knife, still smeared with his blood. Turned away with a shudder. If he couldn’t die by his god’s hand…he’d do it at his side.

 _Fuck_ , he needed a drink.

He’d hidden a bottle of brandy in Enjolras’ flat months ago, he remembered. When it was empty, he’d join his friends and keep drinking. It didn’t matter how drunk he got now.

 


End file.
